Five Times She Awoke, One Time She Didn't
by DorugaruAtisuto
Summary: A six part series of linked but unrelated oneshots. Contains spoilers for the LMS(Little Miss Stony) series throughout it, so RAYOR(Read At Your Own Risk). Rated M for language and possibly future content.
1. Divorce

Stories that are completely unrelated to the LMS series. Just... ASDFGHJKL I needed to do this to get over my hump. More completely unrelated one-/two-/three-/ -shots/stories to come... These have spoilers, though, so... Yeah. If you read LMS, read these AYOR.

* * *

1. Divorce

Note: Emilee is sixteen, Peter is twenty-one.

My hands were fisted in the hem of my shirt, my eyes staring at the suddenly extremely interesting carpet. _The rumbas have done a rather nice job of cleaning them_, I thought. _Not a speck of dirt._

"You know we have to talk about this, Emilee."

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head stubbornly. "Not if I don't want to. You promised that if there was something I didn't want to talk about, we wouldn't."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say yet."

"I still don't want to hear it."

"This is an exception," Steve said with a sigh. "This is really important. We've already told Peter. We wanted to be sure first before we told you."

Dad was completely sober, surprisingly. More surprisingly, he was silent. He was also sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees and looking at me over his hands bridged in front of his face. Pops was standing behind the couch, which set off a red light.

"Daddy?" I whispered. "What is Papa talking about?"

Dad still didn't say anything.

Pops maneuvered around the couch to crouch in front of me and pry on of my hands off my stretched shirt. "Daddy and I..." My breath caught in my throat. "Your father and I thought..." Papa's expression tightened. Dad closed his eyes.

"Daddy and I are going to file for divorce."

My heart skipped a beat and my eyes jerked from the floor to my father's deep blue eyes, filled to the brim and spilling over with guilt formed into tears. I didn't even know I was crying until he brushed away my tears when I rubbed away his.

Daddy and I are going to file for divorce.

_Daddy and I are going to file for divorce._

_Going to file for divorce._

**_Divorce_**.

My hand ripped Papa's hand away from my face. I stood up angrily, nostrils flaring as I glared at first Pops and then Dad. Dad turned his eyes up toward me, poker faced, and said nothing. He didn't even move.

"What?" I breathed incredulously. "Is this - " I looked around, searching for cameras. "Is this a practical joke? Come on guys, this isn't funny. Peter? Come on, the joke isn't working, guys – Peter!"

Papa took my hands again and I yanked them away, thwacking his jaw. "Stop!" I snapped. "Don't _fucking_ touch me, you asshole!"

Dad took this as his cue to finally react. He clenched his jaw, eyes steely, and stood. "Emilee, don't you _dare_ talk to your father that way."

"Oh, so you're going to team up for this now?" I glared at him. "Make me do this whole respect shit and then split? Or are you going to keep ganging up on me for this crap?"

"Emilee - "

"Shut up!" I shrieked. "I wish both of you would stop being so inconsiderate and think about someone else for once?"

"_Stop_."

The waterworks were really flowing now, and my vision was impaired. "Do you think this was the best idea for everyone?" I asked softly, sinking to the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest and buried my face in my knees. "It isn't fair."

Papa's arms wrapped around me, and Dad's hand wedged under my arm to hold my limp hand. "We're sorry, honey," Papa said gently. "But we've decided that we can't do this anymore."

"What about work?"

"Your Daddy and I will still be working together, like we always will until other heroes take our places, but, hey – look at me, baby - " - Papa pulled back to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes - "it'll be alright. Okay? Your Daddy and I are really, very sorry about dumping this on you two all of a sudden. And we'll do anything we can to make up for it."

"Well you can't," I whispered. Papa bit his bottom lip and enveloped me in a hug with his chin on the top of my head, Dad's arms encircling my waist and his face pressing into the space between my shoulder blades not long after. The back of my shirt was warmed by his tears.

"We know."

* * *

The day after my parents broke the news to me, I'd taken a secret flight - a sympathetic courtesy of Pepper under the guise of having business on the west coast – back to Los Angeles before even Papa had awoken.

The two hour flight had been silent and tense, interrupted only by stiffly polite offers of food and drink or easy entertainment like movies or games.

When we got off the plane, I took my bike – a sleek, black Kawasaki Ninja, and high-tailed it out of the airport, blinking back tears from the wind and my emotions. Needless to say, the wind was much easier to ignore.

My destination, my old school, was deserted in the mid-summer dawn, devoid of any life. No summer camp or summer school elementary students, no high schoolers ambling around with early morning community service jobs. Just me.

I drove up to the cul de sac, hopped off my bike, and sank down on the curved curb, hiding my nose and mouth with tented hands. The dawn was blue, the sky cloudy but broken enough to showcase several dim stars. There weren't ever many stars in the Los Angeles district, but when I saw one or two, I was amazed, especially when I visited my cousins in the countryside, where they had millions.

"Somehow, I knew I'd find someone here."

My head snapped up. "Wha - "

The boy shifted, expression unreadable. He could've been uncomfortable, anxious, or simply without palpable feeling. "Don't you remember me?" Not at first glance.

Matt's hair had grown out a little, and he seemed to be in need of a haircut. His skin had become even more golden, his eyes darker and his posture not so slouched. He'd built up some pretty good muscle.

"You're very quiet, Mattie." He sat down next to me and tugged off his backpack, pulling out a worn, torn up navy folder. A sheet of white printer paper was pulled out and folded until it was a perfect, traditional paper plane. He dug around in his pack for something, finally taking out a mechanical pencil.

"Mm." Matt scrawled something on the inside of the airplane and handed it to me. He glanced at my bike, sitting to the side, and let out a breath of appreciation. "Wow. That's _nice_. Where'd you get that?"

"Last year, for my birthday," I said. I almost always took deep pride in my bike, but this time, as I talked about it, my tone was flat. "My folks were really generous."

Matt turned his attention to me. "You okay?" I shook my head and rested my chin on my knees. "Another depression thing?" I groaned. He reached up to play at my fingertips. His hand was still really rough from his old dry ice injuries. "Are you going to talk about it?"

I took a shaky breath. This was Matt. No matter how many holes had opened up in our friendship, he was still in my top list of people I could trust, set right under Steve and Jennifer. I began to dissolve even before I said anything.

"Mattie, my parents are filing for divorce."

The response was an awkward, tear-inducing, yet well-meaning hug, the only way Matt knew how. "I'm sorry." I clutched onto his Linkin Park band t-shirt.

We stayed there for another few minutes before I pulled away, eyes sticky and red. "Sorry," I hiccuped. "I usually cry in my bathroom or bedroom until I'm not hideous anymore."

Matt laughed almost apologetically. "Do you want to talk about it or...?"

I shook my head. "Something else," I insisted. "How are you doing in school?"

"Alright." Then with a wry half-smile, he added, "I'm still a really big procrastinator."

"Typical," I laughed hoarsely. "Lemme guess. You're getting Cs and Ds because you're not turning work in, huh?"

Surprisingly, Matt shook his head. "Nope. I'm actually trying."

"What year?"

"Junior. You?"

"Same."

We talked about what had happened the past few years, though I refrained from telling him about my 'occupation' as a superhero. Matt hadn't hooked up with anyone yet, was doing fairly well with his family, and had made it on the football _and_ basketball teams through high school years.

The sun was almost completely up when Matt stood. "I should probably go," he said. "I have work in half an hour."

"Community service doing summer camp stuff?"

"Nah. Landscaping." I nodded with an 'ah'. "I'll see you later?"

"Yeah."

I watched him walk down the cul de sac and up the stairs to the main office to check in before standing and stretching my joints until they popped satisfyingly. I glanced down at the paper plane, still perfect and unwrinkled in my hand, and opened it.

Inside, in his perfect scrawl, was Matt's number, his address, and a note.

_Your LA family misses you. Come home more often_.

I smiled, tucked it into a secret compartment Dad had modified in my bike, and rode out of the cul de sac to Frankie's Burgers.

* * *

Armed with zucchini sticks, four cheeseburgers, and drinks, I headed to Steve's house. He was waiting for me outside, like I had asked him to, and judging by his expression, Matt had told him about my parents' divorce. They both knew of the Avengers and my relation to them, but never dwelled too much on it.

"Em!" Lawrence – my Steve - cried. "Are you okay?" I rolled my eyes, feeling a tiny smile tugging at my lips from a power only Lawrence could emit.

"Still very upset, but doing surprisingly better. Talked with Matt, so my day's been really good."

Steve grinned. "Come on. I want to show you some stuff since I don't know when you're leaving."

* * *

The visit in my hometown district of Los Angeles was cut short because Pepper finished early. The plane ride back to New York dampened my spirits, as Pepper behaved stiffer and seemed distressed. She didn't say much, however, and the moment the plane landed, we ordered a taxi to take me home, promising that someone would take my bike back to the Tower in a few minutes.

I punched in the override code to our 'house' floor and let myself in, sighing quietly. The floor seemed empty, untouched and clean. My skin crawled.

Heading into the kitchen for a drink, I spotted something written on the little whiteboard on the fridge door.

_Emilee,_

_Dress formally and go with Miss Potts. We're settling who's keeping you under custody._

_-Your father, Steve_

I swallowed thickly and tore the whiteboard off the fridge, chucking it to the floor.

Damn. And right after LA, too.

* * *

I twiddled my thumbs, staring blankly out the window. Peter sat next to me in the car, I couldn't have given a response without hurting someone.

"You know no one is going to blame you," Peter whispered. "You chose what you thought was best. It'll be alright."

_Liar_. _You don't need to be caught up with the real aftermath of the divorce_, I thought bitterly. _You're off living with Wade, and you're rarely actually home._

"You're right," I said.

"Dad needs someone to take care of him more than Pops does."

I smirked and glanced at Peter before turning my visual attention back out the window. "And that's where you're wrong, brother dear. They both need someone to survive with. Some people just cope differently." I run my fingertips over the white knife scars marring the skin on my left arm. "Like me."

_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

My eyes snap open, my breath leaving my lungs in a sharp gasp as I shoot up into a sitting position. The glittering lights of New York sparkle outside my floor-to-ceiling windows. My malfunctioning clock shows 3:00 am on it's digital face.

I wipe the sweat off my forehead and hop out of bed for some water.

I don't have to sleep any more tonight, I suppose.


	2. Where the Monsters Are Real

2. Where the Monsters Are Real – But Questionable (Who's Who?)

Note: Emilee was in a battle, and this is VERY AU from the original... AU. Merp.

* * *

"They're not coming back for you, you know."

"I know. It's okay. We both knew this day would come eventually, right? This place is impenetrable. They couldn't come in if they tried."

"Are you really okay with it? You might never see them again. Won't even hear them."

I glance at my best friend, who's dressed down in a black Mayday Parade shirt, a khaki cargo jacket, boot cut jeans over black Doc Martens, and feel a sad smile tugging at my lips before I shake my head and resume putting gears together.

"I told you. It's fine," I chuckle softly. "After all, I have you, right?"

She purses her lips and averts her eyes slightly, so that her gaze falls on a tarp-covered pile that's been pushed aside. "What's that?" she asks. I almost frown; she's never liked dealing with problems. Always liked avoiding them any way she could.

She steps carefully over boxes of gears and bends down, one hand on her knee, and lifts the tarp. I close my eyes and await the expected gasp of surprise.

"Emilee, are these yours?" she asks, turning to me. I sigh and set down my project, fiddling with the hem of my stained wife beater. Stained with blood, tears. Maybe some graphite from my pencil drawings when I can't find my tablet.

"Yes, they're mine."

"But..." My friend goes back to what's under the tarp: my forgotten past. A fragment of what I used to do before I went to battle and lost my accuracy through a scarred left eye. "You were never into - "

"I know," I say, tone even and flat. "But it was a long time ago - "

"You mean before the - "

"Yeah."

My friend is silent for a while. Then she flicks the tarp off and sets it aside on the ground. "Maybe if you started painting again - "

"Isn't it obvious I can't even focus on something like that long enough without having an attack to - "

" - if you just _tried_, Emilee, just tried – this world" - she gestures around the room: a fairly empty studio, converted into an art workshop for myself and my friend - "we could be normal again."

I let out a bark of dry laughter. "Oh, right! I just pick up a paint brush and – poof!" I make a mushroom cloud explosion with my hands. "Everything's will become perfect and sparkly! Daddy will actually spend time with me out of the lab, Pops will _understand_, Peter will come home more, and my brain will be completely clear! Not to mention, my left eye will no longer be damaged to the point of blindness. Oh, yes, that'll work out perfectly!"

My friend bristles, teeth bared in annoyance. "You know, you're a lot more stubborn than I remember."

I curl my lip in a similar sneer. "And you used to be less of a needy brat."

Her expression softens immediately in what looks like pity. "Well, then, I'm sorry I left and have to do it again."

And then she's gone and I'm left feeling cold. I sigh and scrub a hand over my face.

"Maybe I'm right."

Thirteen and a half paint cans, four scrapped canvases, and almost a whole forty-eight hours later, I've settled down with my first painting in six years.

And I'm all alone, like I started.

* * *

… _Did anyone else understand this? It was supposed to be vague. See if you can guess what it's about._


End file.
